


it’s enough to be young and in love

by owenwilsonvevo



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owenwilsonvevo/pseuds/owenwilsonvevo
Summary: He may be a little drunk on the warmth of the sun and John’s laugh but he feels like a weight he’d never noticed had been lifted off his shoulders. He’s finally met his soulmate. He’s finally met his soulmate and he’s adorable, too.





	it’s enough to be young and in love

**Author's Note:**

> a new fic brought to you by the eight (8) different requests I got on tumblr to write another soulmate fic but this time with deaky and freddie :^) its kind of a prequel to the other soulmate fic but mostly it’s a fic of its own 
> 
> inspired by both that one tumblr post that talks about deaky being really good at football??? and fanart that I think I saw on tumblr but I may have seen on Instagram that was long haired freddie with a half knot my brain is really stuck on both those things for some reason so here we are 
> 
> ps if you know the fanart I’m talking about can you please sauce it my way I can’t find it ANYWHERE and I miss it thx

The sun is high and bright and unseasonably pleasant as it filters through the gaps in the branches above Freddie, sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree. The sun warms his skin where it reaches him, sprawled out across the grass with a textbook open beside him and Roger cross legged in front of him. His back is to Freddie, and Freddie can hear the telltale sounds of Candy Crush as he taps at the screen of his phone. He has textbooks open in front of him, too, but he doesn’t even pretend he’s trying to read them, instead letting Freddie work his hair into plaits on either side of his head. They’re on campus, not far from the field where the footie team is practicing. They’re all taking advantage of the heat and wearing athletic shorts and it’s a big part of the reason Freddie had decided on that particular spot to study. That, and the tree is doing it’s part to keep them shaded from the warmth of the sun. 

It’s high and bright and warm above them as Freddie carefully works his fingers through a tangle in Roger’s hair, rolling his eyes as he hisses. He’s wearing a massive Hawaiian shirt, one that Freddie honestly isn’t sure why he owns, but he’d rolled the sleeves high enough up his arms that sitting behind him, Freddie can just make out a bit of the soulmark stretched across his inner bicep. 

Roger’s says something like, _I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say now_. Nobody’s soulmark really says anything beautiful or thoughtful — they’re the first words you’ll soulmate will ever say to you so a lot of the time they’re kind of ridiculous. Sometimes they’re cheesy pickup lines, other times it’s something that makes it kind of hard to pin your soulmate down, like _hi_ or _excuse me_. Roger’s is more particular, _I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say now_. 

Freddies’ is, _I’m so sorry, it got away from me_. Not vague, necessarily, but very on brand with the whole ridiculous, what the fuck could it mean?, thing. He has next to no idea what sort of conversation starts with _I’m so sorry, it got away from me_. What got away? Why are they so sorry about it? What is the escaped thing going to do to him? 

He’s spent a lot of time thinking about it. It’s hard, sometimes, not to let his mind wander to the mark he was born with above his hip that would determine the rest of his life. Even now, when he catches a glimpse of it in the mirror or when he’s feeling particularly lonely he’ll wonder about his soulmate, about when and how they’re going to meet. As it is, he glances at the thick lines of Roger’s and tries to ignore him when he hisses again, Freddie’s fingers catching on a particularly nasty snag. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, darling,” he scoffs. “You’ll live.” 

“I’m not worried about living,” Roger tells him. “I’m worried about you tearing all my hair out.” 

He rolls his eyes again as he carefully picks apart the knot. “If you brushed your hair more often we wouldn’t be having this problem, would we?” 

Roger sputters indignantly. “I brush my hair every day.” 

“You don’t, though,” Freddie says. “I’m not even convinced you own a hairbrush. I’m pretty sure the only hairbrush we have in the flat is mine.” 

Roger starts to make another indignant sound, almost a whine, but then his phone chirps sadly when he loses again and he huffs, lifting his head. Freddie makes a quick noise of protest, keeping a hand tangled in Roger’s hair as he forces his head back down with the other. “Quit moving,” he scolds. “This is only going to take longer if you can’t sit still.” 

“It’ll be a lot quicker if you stop trying to rip all my hair out,” Roger suggests, and Freddie knows Roger can’t see him but he raises his eyebrows anyway, unamused. 

“If I don’t sort out all your tangles there isn’t going to be any hair to braid,” he says. “Did you want to do your own hair?” 

“No,” Roger admits. 

Freddie clicks his tongue. “I didn’t think so.” He eases his fingers through Roger’s hair again, casting a sideways glance at the footie pitch as he goes. There’s some kind of commotion happening, a shout and a loud laugh but Freddie can’t actually see them doing anything exciting so he turns back to the task at hand. He works Roger’s hair apart carefully, trying to keep from breaking it off as much as possible. He doesn’t lift his head at the next shout from the pitch, so it totally catches him off guard when a football comes barreling across the grass towards them and hits him hard in the thigh. 

The sound he makes is high pitched and embarrassing. He jumps and accidentally pulls Roger’s hair in the process, who makes a high, startled sound of his own. “Watch it,” he hisses. 

“Don’t blame me,” Freddie says, carefully untangling his fingers from Roger’s hair to lift the football from the grass. One of the blokes from the footie team is already jogging over to them, and he’s getting cuter the closer he gets. He has long, strong legs, and long, messy hair pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. His footie uniform consists of sinfully short shorts and for some reason, Freddie can’t help but notice that he’s wearing two different socks. One sock is light pink in colour and patterned with grey kittens, the other, dark blue with yellow stars. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, sheepish as he approaches, and he has a pleasant, lilting accent, “it got away from me. That was my fault.” 

Freddie’s brain sort of short circuits, then. Promptly, he drops the football, and Roger, who’s heard Freddie say it, who’s seen the words on Freddie’s body for himself enough times that he knows them exactly, looks up so quickly his whole body jerks with it. He looks at the footie player, mouth hanging open, and Freddie has just enough brain power left to think he must look much the same. He flounders, looking for something, anything to say back to him, any sort of something that will sweep him off his feet, that will be the first words he ever says to his soulmate. Instead, the very last of his brain cells think again of the kittens on his socks, and he says, “I quite like the socks, darling.” 

He must understand, then, too, because suddenly he’s mirroring Freddie’s expression. His mouth hangs open and he looks pretty as he does it, opening and closing it a few times before he finally says, “oh.” Freddie can’t really blame him for not knowing what to say. He doesn’t really know what to say, either. “It’s you,” he adds after a moment of silence. 

“Holy shit,” Roger interjects helpfully. Freddie’s soulmate looks at him quickly, like he’s snapping out of a daydream, like he hadn’t quite noticed that he was even there. “You guys are soulmates,” he says, and Freddie looks at him then, too, feeling it slowly starting to sink in through the ice cold layers of shock. The sun is high and bright and unseasonably warm and Freddie’s soulmate is standing above him in athletic shorts and mismatched socks. 

He looks up at him again. He’s already looking at Freddie, and he flushes when he meets his eye but he doesn’t look away. “This really isn’t how I thought practice was going to go today,” he admits. 

“This is exactly how I thought today was going to go, actually,” Freddie says. 

His soulmate lifts an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“No,” he admits, and when his soulmate laughs, he angles his head back enough that Freddie can make out the colour of the flush down the front of his throat. Freddie finds it hopelessly endearing. 

He reaches up to tug nervously on a strand of his hair, half of which is pulled into an artfully messy knot high on the back of his head. He isn’t an insecure person, necessarily, but the person standing in front of him is his soulmate, of all things, and he’s making Freddie really aware of how he looks, of what he’s wearing. The person standing in front of him is destined to be in his life for the rest of it, and he’s suddenly very aware that his first impression of Freddie will always be a bright yellow jumper and a half knot. He isn’t insecure about it, but it’s definitely kind of daunting, that this is the first time he’s meeting somebody that’s about to become a permanent fixture in his life. 

His soulmate must be having a similar train of thought because when he smiles, it’s sheepish. “Honestly wasn’t sure how to picture it happening,” he says, holding his arm out sideways so Freddie can see the small block of text on his wrist. _I quite like the socks, darling_ , of all things. “It’s not often people call me out on my socks.” 

“They’re a bit hard to miss,” Freddie tells him, picking the football up again so he has something to do with his hands. He holds it up. “This was yours, I believe.” 

“It was,” he agrees, taking it from him, and Freddie’s struck with an electric shock when their fingers brush. “I’m really sorry about, er, hitting you with it.” 

“He’s no stranger to balls,” Roger pipes up, in a tone that almost sounds like he’s trying to be reassuring. 

Freddie looks at him sharply and wishes they had never met. “Would you _piss off_?” 

He holds his hands up defensively and Freddie scoffs, looking back up at his soulmate as he laughs again. He screws his eyes shut as he does and Freddie wonders if maybe it’s just because he knows that the football player is destined for him, but he’s growing impossibly more endeared as he watches him. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Freddie says.

“Of course not,” he agrees easily, glancing over his shoulder at the next clamour of noise that rises from the pitch. 

“Oi!” Somebody shouts, and there’s more raucous laughter before a different voice yells, “Deaky! Quit flirting and get back here!” 

His soulmate — Deaky, apparently — flushes again as he looks back down at Freddie. “Sorry,” he says, and before Freddie has time to even wave him off, he adds, “just a second,” and runs off back towards the pitch. Freddie feels a beat of disappointment but it’s lessened as he watches Deaky’s arse in his shorts as he walks away. 

“He’s cute, Fred,” Roger says. 

“I know,” Freddie agrees, and then the disappointment leaves him completely as he watches Deaky drop kick the ball at one of his teammates. He must say something — Freddie presumes about himself, but he doesn’t know if maybe that’s a bit cocky — because then there’s another shout, he’s being pulled into a group hug, and then he’s walking back over to Freddie with a small, shy smile. 

“Me again,” he greets. 

“It’s been a long time,” Freddie says. He’s keen to keep Deaky around him, so he tugs at his hair again with one hand as he asks, “do you want to sit?” 

“Yeah,” Deaky says, lowering himself onto the grass in front of Freddie before he holds out a hand. “I’m John. Deacon,” he adds quickly, “so everybody calls me Deaky.” 

Freddie takes his hand delicately, shakes it. ”I’m Freddie.” 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Freddie,” John says. “You’re beautiful.” It’s not what Freddie was expecting him to say, and it startles a laugh out of him as John flushes again, all the way into the collar of his jersey. “I mean, you’re — you look, er, beautiful,” he says. 

Freddie looks down as he grins, and it’s Roger that pipes up, “he doesn’t normally look this good. He wears a lot of horrid things.” 

Freddie looks at him quickly. “Why are you still here?” 

“Because I want to be here for this,” he says simply. 

“No,” Freddie says. “Go away.” 

“No,” Roger says, but he huffs when Freddie lifts his eyebrows and starts to pick up his textbooks. “Fine, I’m leaving. But you’re going to tell me everything later or I’m going to cut your hair in your sleep.” 

He stands, ruffling Freddie’s hair as he walks past him, and Freddie’s quick to straighten it out with one hand. “Flatmate,” he explains, and John nods. “And he’s lying. I always look this nice.” 

John laughs again, and Freddie thinks he’s maybe getting drunk on the sound. “Were you studying?” He asks. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“I was plaiting his hair,” Freddie says, waving him off. “He gets off on dutch braids but he can’t do them himself to save his life.” 

“You’re free, then?” John asks. 

He nods. “I am.” 

“Did you want to grab coffee with me?” He asks. He looks genuinely hopeful, and Freddie can’t help the smile that spreads slowly across his face. “Or something else, if you don’t like coffee.” 

“Coffee would be great, actually,” Freddie says, and John looks visibly relieved as he stands, holding a hand out to Freddie. 

Freddie grabs his textbook before he takes Deaky’s hand, heaving himself to his feet. “Great,” John says, and he sounds so genuinely relieved that Freddie smiles again as he takes his arm. 

The sun is high and bright and unseasonably warm as he watches the flush spread across John’s cheeks again. He leads Freddie across the grass, and Freddie keeps a hand on his arm, staying close. He may be a little drunk on the warmth of the sun and John’s laugh but he feels like a weight he’d never noticed had been lifted off his shoulders. He’s finally met his soulmate. He’s finally met his soulmate and he’s adorable, too. 

He curls his fingers into the sleeve of John’s jersey and feels giddy like he hasn’t in a long time. “Great,” he agrees, and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> dont forget to come find me on [tumblr](http://sweetheaert.tumblr.com) I am desperate for attention at all times


End file.
